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charleygirlTitle: The Garish Light of Day 26/?
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2457
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Erik the Phantom, Madame Giry
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: One, two, three, four...
LET’S FACE THE MUSIC AND DANCE
“How is it, Madame, that you seem able to come and go from my house at will?”
It was early on Saturday morning; leaving Meg to sleep after the previous evening’s performance Antoinette had let herself in through the gate on the Rue Scribe and descended to the fifth cellar carrying a letter that had come with the first post. Seeing the mark of origin in the corner it was clear that Erik should see it as soon as possible but his frosty words as she entered his library made her think twice. Before she could answer he rose from his armchair and crossed the room to stand before her, arms folded and a forbidding expression on the visible side of his face. Madame Giry liked to think that she was not to be intimidated, and as that was his obvious intention she ignored him and said,
“Good morning to you, too, Erik. I take it from your tone that you got out of bed on the wrong side.”
His mouth twitched in annoyance. “You must have taken a key. Where is it?” One of his large, long-fingered hands unfurled expectantly; she took no notice of that, either.
“It is common courtesy to offer a guest a drink,” she told him, settling herself on the sofa. “Tea would be most welcome, and a biscuit if you have any. I neglected to make breakfast before I left.”
“In that case, I suggest you go home and prepare some and leave me in peace,” Erik snapped, regarding her as though he was considering how hard it would be to pick her up and carry her from his abode. Antoinette did not doubt that he would do so if pushed, but she held her ground.
“You know how I take tea: two lumps of sugar, not too strong. And remember to warm the pot first. You should have some of those petit fours left; I only brought them down last week.”
“Unfortunately they have all gone. Christine is rather partial to them.” He glared at her for some moments, hands on hips, before she heard him chuckle. “God above, Annie, you would try the patience of a saint! What do you want?”
Madame held up the letter. “This arrived. I thought it best to bring it to you.” Taking it, he frowned, and then to her surprise tossed it unopened onto his desk where it landed amid a jumble of music sheets and other paperwork. “Aren’t you going to open it? It’s from Rouen - ”
“Later. I have more pressing business at present.” Turning away from her Erik ran a distracted hand through his hair and began to pace back and forth across the hearthrug, his usual habit when he was thinking. He was in his shirt sleeves, his jacket discarded over the back of a chair. It was an unusual occurrence; even at such an early hour he always made sure that he looked immaculate, his suit perfectly pressed, hair neatly brushed to disguise the spots where it grew thin. Antoinette supposed the meticulous care he took with his appearance was an attempt to in some way make up for the terrible hand that nature had dealt him; he did all that he could to present the picture of a handsome man, to compensate for the reality behind the mask.
When it became evident that if she wanted tea she would have to fetch it herself, she got up and made for Erik’s little kitchen. On her way she passed the alcove with the red velvet curtains and was relieved to see that there was no sign of the wax facsimile of Christine; in its place stood a tailor’s dummy wearing a long, flowing panelled cloak of shimmering black and gold silk. Madame Giry was grateful for the waxwork Christine’s absence. The thing had unnerved her with its fixed glassy stare; goodness only knew how the poor girl had felt encountering it every time she entered Erik’s home.
The kitchen was a room into which he rarely ventured, despite their attempts to encourage him to eat more. She found a half full tin of tea in the tiny larder as well as a couple of brioche that were past their best but would have to do. There was milk in the pantry; to her surprise when she tried an experimental sniff it turned out to be fresh, proving that he must have been out for some provisions in the last couple of days. Mounting an investigation Antoinette discovered the remains of a loaf and some dried fruit but precious little else.
Erik was sitting at the piano when she returned carrying a tray, drumming his fingers on the closed lid. His agitation was obvious but Madame was not going to ask him about it; if he wanted to tell her he would do so in his own time and she was not about to risk being on the receiving end of his temper by prying. Settling back into her seat she poured out two cups and taking up her own remarked,
“You’re actually going to attend this evening, then.”
He jumped, and turned to look at her. “How did you know?”
She gestured to the dummy in the alcove. “Unless your sartorial style is making a radical change, that would appear to be part of a masquerade costume.”
“Nothing escapes you, does it?”
“I am a mother, Erik,” Antoinette told him. “I will confess to being somewhat surprised that you have agreed to go.”
“Christine wants to. I did tell her that it might be a little awkward given what happened at the last bal masque, but she informed me that the disaster it became was no one’s fault but my own.” Erik shook his head, a rueful smile touching his lips. “She was quite emphatic upon that point. Apparently the onus is upon me to make it up to her.”
Madame took a sip of her tea. “You did humiliate her in the most appallingly public way, not to mention scaring everyone witless with your magic tricks and that ridiculous costume. Wherever did you find it?”
“In one of the old trunks at the back of the prop room. It wasn’t ridiculous,” he said defensively.
“’I am Red Death stalking abroad.’” She raised an eyebrow. “A touch melodramatic?”
Erik sighed and rested his elbows on his knees, looking down at his clasped hands. “I don’t know how she can find it in her heart to forgive me for my inexcusable behaviour. Were I the wronged party I would not find it so easy.”
“She does so because she loves you,” Antoinette said, putting down her cup and getting to her feet. She patted his shoulder. “Now, are you going to tell me what this marvellous creation of yours is going to be?”
He didn’t move, and when she turned back to him his visible cheek had coloured slightly and he was gnawing on his bottom lip.
“Is something else the matter?” she asked.
“I... I have never been to a ball before; at least not as an invited guest.” He shifted uncomfortably on the piano stool and she realised that he was embarrassed. “There will be music. And... dancing.”
“Of course, that is the whole point - ” She broke off, belatedly comprehending his meaning. “You... Erik, do you not know how to dance?”
He gave a humourless laugh. “It was a little difficult to find willing partners. No one wants to dance with the Devil.” As he heaved another sigh, Antoinette decided it was time to act before he sank into self-pity.
“You have great natural grace, and as a musician you should also have rhythm. I know too that you are a quick learner, which is as well since we have only a few hours,” she said. She held out a hand to him, which he just stared at as though she had offered him a dead fish. “Come on; on your feet.”
Erik looked bewildered. “Whatever for?”
She clucked her tongue impatiently. “I am going to teach you how to waltz, idiot. Do you think I can only dance the ballet? I’ll have you know that I was whirled around many a ballroom before Meg was born.”
“I’m sure you must have graced the most select society parties,” Erik said, his single eyebrow flicking upwards. She took his right hand in hers and drew the left around to rest in the small of her back. He flinched at the close contact and tried to pull away but she would not let him. “Is there no way of learning at a little more distance?”
“One cannot waltz at arm’s length.”
“I was afraid of that. Does no one dance the minuet or the quadrille any more?”
“You’ll be asking me to teach you the pavane next,” Antoinette retorted. “This isn’t the court of Francois the First, Erik. We do things a little differently now.”
“Yes, I know, but...” He flushed again, as he looked down to where their bodies were pressed against one another. “This is hardly proper.”
She found herself smiling, which caused his face to redden even more. “You really are a gentleman, aren’t you? I seem to remember that you weren’t so shy with Christine during Don Juan.”
“That was completely different. And it was Christine. This is... awkward.”
“Then pretend I am Christine. Now, follow me,” Madame told him before he could protest. “And do try not to tread on my toes. I’m sure neither of us would enjoy your having to carry me up five flights of stairs and explain to Messieurs Marigny and Fontaine exactly how their ballet mistress came to end up with a broken foot.”
________________________________________
“There, that’s it! You’ve got it!”
“And I only had to sacrifice two vases and a rare Chinese sculpture,” Erik said as they took a turn past the mantel, Antoinette’s skirts swirling gracefully around her ankles. As she had expected, he was extremely light on his feet, and once he started humming to compensate for the lack of music he picked up the steps in record time. Before too long he was confidently taking the lead, twirling her around the library with an enviable agility.
“Yes, well, I should have thought to clear the floor before we started,” she replied. “I am not used to having to avoid furniture when dancing.”
He threw back his head and his seldom-heard laughter rang through the room. It was a wonderful sound. “So, you think I will pass muster, then?” he asked.
“You’ll do. It will enable you to dance two measures with Christine at least.”
“Only two?” Surprise and then anger flared in his eyes. “So you do think I’ll disappoint her.”
“Any more would be too particular,” Madame told him as they came to an abrupt halt on the hearthrug. “Until you declare your intentions it would be wise not to monopolise her; people might get entirely the wrong idea.”
Erik let her go, walking away to begin pushing the sofa back into place. As he fussed around, making sure it stood exactly in the grooves its weight had made in the carpet, she watched, knowing that she had made a promise not to raise the subject again. It was a promise she would have kept but for the fact of his ignorance of social etiquette; Christine’s reputation had already suffered enough damage, intentional or otherwise, from his actions.
“My intentions, yes,” he said, straightening one of the cushions with precision so that it sat at right angles to the sofa back. Satisfied, he turned his attention to the occasional tables, setting them back where they belonged. There had been a halt to the lesson earlier while he fetched dustpan and brush to sweep up the shards of pottery and china; neither of them noticed the table in their path and tripped over it, sweeping the ornaments from their shelves as they tried to right themselves.
“Have you... thought any more about them?” Antoinette asked. She would not usually be hesitant, but this was a delicate area in which to be treading.
“I never cease thinking about them.” Erik stopped moving the furniture and turned to face her. His expression was calm, but serious. “Though I know that she spends all the time with me she can, when I have to let Christine go at the end of the day a little piece of me dies. I want her with me, beside me, Annie; I want to wake up to see her face on the pillow beside mine, to watch her as she sleeps. I grow weary of this solitary existence.”
“Well, then - ”
“Yes, I know what I have to do.” He reached a hand into his waistcoat pocket, withdrawing a little black velvet jeweller’s box which he held out to her. “Give me your honest opinion: do you think she will like it?”
Antoinette lifted the lid; inside nestled a simple gold band set with a single diamond flanked by two small rubies. It was delicate and tasteful, and far more fitted to a girl like Christine than the ostentatious ring she had been given by the vicomte, a ring which Christine revealed later had belonged to Raoul’s grandmother. “I think,” she said, “that it is perfect. Did you design it yourself?”
Erik nodded, taking back the box which vanished into his pocket once more. “A talented craftsman of my acquaintance turned the design into reality.”
“When will you ask her?”
“I have been waiting for so long, trying to summon the courage,” he said, sinking into his chair and staring into the empty fireplace. “Even now, the very idea of making such a momentous gesture, one that will change our lives forever, petrifies me. What will I do if she refuses?”
“Erik, she will not refuse,” Madame told him, coming to perch on the arm. “Why should she?”
“You do not think that maybe, just maybe, she might take a long hard look at me and realise exactly what she would be taking on?” This time his bark of laughter was harsh. “I would not blame her if she turned and ran.”
“She has proved herself before, on more than one occasion. Give her some credit; she deserves that at least.” She rested a hand on his shoulder. “Is it to be tonight?”
He nodded. “At midnight, when everyone else is unmasking. We have no need of such a thing; Christine unmasked me a long time ago.”
“In that case, my dear,” Antoinette said, bending down to kiss him on his undamaged cheek, “I wish you luck from the bottom of my heart.”
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2457
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Erik the Phantom, Madame Giry
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: One, two, three, four...
“How is it, Madame, that you seem able to come and go from my house at will?”
It was early on Saturday morning; leaving Meg to sleep after the previous evening’s performance Antoinette had let herself in through the gate on the Rue Scribe and descended to the fifth cellar carrying a letter that had come with the first post. Seeing the mark of origin in the corner it was clear that Erik should see it as soon as possible but his frosty words as she entered his library made her think twice. Before she could answer he rose from his armchair and crossed the room to stand before her, arms folded and a forbidding expression on the visible side of his face. Madame Giry liked to think that she was not to be intimidated, and as that was his obvious intention she ignored him and said,
“Good morning to you, too, Erik. I take it from your tone that you got out of bed on the wrong side.”
His mouth twitched in annoyance. “You must have taken a key. Where is it?” One of his large, long-fingered hands unfurled expectantly; she took no notice of that, either.
“It is common courtesy to offer a guest a drink,” she told him, settling herself on the sofa. “Tea would be most welcome, and a biscuit if you have any. I neglected to make breakfast before I left.”
“In that case, I suggest you go home and prepare some and leave me in peace,” Erik snapped, regarding her as though he was considering how hard it would be to pick her up and carry her from his abode. Antoinette did not doubt that he would do so if pushed, but she held her ground.
“You know how I take tea: two lumps of sugar, not too strong. And remember to warm the pot first. You should have some of those petit fours left; I only brought them down last week.”
“Unfortunately they have all gone. Christine is rather partial to them.” He glared at her for some moments, hands on hips, before she heard him chuckle. “God above, Annie, you would try the patience of a saint! What do you want?”
Madame held up the letter. “This arrived. I thought it best to bring it to you.” Taking it, he frowned, and then to her surprise tossed it unopened onto his desk where it landed amid a jumble of music sheets and other paperwork. “Aren’t you going to open it? It’s from Rouen - ”
“Later. I have more pressing business at present.” Turning away from her Erik ran a distracted hand through his hair and began to pace back and forth across the hearthrug, his usual habit when he was thinking. He was in his shirt sleeves, his jacket discarded over the back of a chair. It was an unusual occurrence; even at such an early hour he always made sure that he looked immaculate, his suit perfectly pressed, hair neatly brushed to disguise the spots where it grew thin. Antoinette supposed the meticulous care he took with his appearance was an attempt to in some way make up for the terrible hand that nature had dealt him; he did all that he could to present the picture of a handsome man, to compensate for the reality behind the mask.
When it became evident that if she wanted tea she would have to fetch it herself, she got up and made for Erik’s little kitchen. On her way she passed the alcove with the red velvet curtains and was relieved to see that there was no sign of the wax facsimile of Christine; in its place stood a tailor’s dummy wearing a long, flowing panelled cloak of shimmering black and gold silk. Madame Giry was grateful for the waxwork Christine’s absence. The thing had unnerved her with its fixed glassy stare; goodness only knew how the poor girl had felt encountering it every time she entered Erik’s home.
The kitchen was a room into which he rarely ventured, despite their attempts to encourage him to eat more. She found a half full tin of tea in the tiny larder as well as a couple of brioche that were past their best but would have to do. There was milk in the pantry; to her surprise when she tried an experimental sniff it turned out to be fresh, proving that he must have been out for some provisions in the last couple of days. Mounting an investigation Antoinette discovered the remains of a loaf and some dried fruit but precious little else.
Erik was sitting at the piano when she returned carrying a tray, drumming his fingers on the closed lid. His agitation was obvious but Madame was not going to ask him about it; if he wanted to tell her he would do so in his own time and she was not about to risk being on the receiving end of his temper by prying. Settling back into her seat she poured out two cups and taking up her own remarked,
“You’re actually going to attend this evening, then.”
He jumped, and turned to look at her. “How did you know?”
She gestured to the dummy in the alcove. “Unless your sartorial style is making a radical change, that would appear to be part of a masquerade costume.”
“Nothing escapes you, does it?”
“I am a mother, Erik,” Antoinette told him. “I will confess to being somewhat surprised that you have agreed to go.”
“Christine wants to. I did tell her that it might be a little awkward given what happened at the last bal masque, but she informed me that the disaster it became was no one’s fault but my own.” Erik shook his head, a rueful smile touching his lips. “She was quite emphatic upon that point. Apparently the onus is upon me to make it up to her.”
Madame took a sip of her tea. “You did humiliate her in the most appallingly public way, not to mention scaring everyone witless with your magic tricks and that ridiculous costume. Wherever did you find it?”
“In one of the old trunks at the back of the prop room. It wasn’t ridiculous,” he said defensively.
“’I am Red Death stalking abroad.’” She raised an eyebrow. “A touch melodramatic?”
Erik sighed and rested his elbows on his knees, looking down at his clasped hands. “I don’t know how she can find it in her heart to forgive me for my inexcusable behaviour. Were I the wronged party I would not find it so easy.”
“She does so because she loves you,” Antoinette said, putting down her cup and getting to her feet. She patted his shoulder. “Now, are you going to tell me what this marvellous creation of yours is going to be?”
He didn’t move, and when she turned back to him his visible cheek had coloured slightly and he was gnawing on his bottom lip.
“Is something else the matter?” she asked.
“I... I have never been to a ball before; at least not as an invited guest.” He shifted uncomfortably on the piano stool and she realised that he was embarrassed. “There will be music. And... dancing.”
“Of course, that is the whole point - ” She broke off, belatedly comprehending his meaning. “You... Erik, do you not know how to dance?”
He gave a humourless laugh. “It was a little difficult to find willing partners. No one wants to dance with the Devil.” As he heaved another sigh, Antoinette decided it was time to act before he sank into self-pity.
“You have great natural grace, and as a musician you should also have rhythm. I know too that you are a quick learner, which is as well since we have only a few hours,” she said. She held out a hand to him, which he just stared at as though she had offered him a dead fish. “Come on; on your feet.”
Erik looked bewildered. “Whatever for?”
She clucked her tongue impatiently. “I am going to teach you how to waltz, idiot. Do you think I can only dance the ballet? I’ll have you know that I was whirled around many a ballroom before Meg was born.”
“I’m sure you must have graced the most select society parties,” Erik said, his single eyebrow flicking upwards. She took his right hand in hers and drew the left around to rest in the small of her back. He flinched at the close contact and tried to pull away but she would not let him. “Is there no way of learning at a little more distance?”
“One cannot waltz at arm’s length.”
“I was afraid of that. Does no one dance the minuet or the quadrille any more?”
“You’ll be asking me to teach you the pavane next,” Antoinette retorted. “This isn’t the court of Francois the First, Erik. We do things a little differently now.”
“Yes, I know, but...” He flushed again, as he looked down to where their bodies were pressed against one another. “This is hardly proper.”
She found herself smiling, which caused his face to redden even more. “You really are a gentleman, aren’t you? I seem to remember that you weren’t so shy with Christine during Don Juan.”
“That was completely different. And it was Christine. This is... awkward.”
“Then pretend I am Christine. Now, follow me,” Madame told him before he could protest. “And do try not to tread on my toes. I’m sure neither of us would enjoy your having to carry me up five flights of stairs and explain to Messieurs Marigny and Fontaine exactly how their ballet mistress came to end up with a broken foot.”
________________________________________
“There, that’s it! You’ve got it!”
“And I only had to sacrifice two vases and a rare Chinese sculpture,” Erik said as they took a turn past the mantel, Antoinette’s skirts swirling gracefully around her ankles. As she had expected, he was extremely light on his feet, and once he started humming to compensate for the lack of music he picked up the steps in record time. Before too long he was confidently taking the lead, twirling her around the library with an enviable agility.
“Yes, well, I should have thought to clear the floor before we started,” she replied. “I am not used to having to avoid furniture when dancing.”
He threw back his head and his seldom-heard laughter rang through the room. It was a wonderful sound. “So, you think I will pass muster, then?” he asked.
“You’ll do. It will enable you to dance two measures with Christine at least.”
“Only two?” Surprise and then anger flared in his eyes. “So you do think I’ll disappoint her.”
“Any more would be too particular,” Madame told him as they came to an abrupt halt on the hearthrug. “Until you declare your intentions it would be wise not to monopolise her; people might get entirely the wrong idea.”
Erik let her go, walking away to begin pushing the sofa back into place. As he fussed around, making sure it stood exactly in the grooves its weight had made in the carpet, she watched, knowing that she had made a promise not to raise the subject again. It was a promise she would have kept but for the fact of his ignorance of social etiquette; Christine’s reputation had already suffered enough damage, intentional or otherwise, from his actions.
“My intentions, yes,” he said, straightening one of the cushions with precision so that it sat at right angles to the sofa back. Satisfied, he turned his attention to the occasional tables, setting them back where they belonged. There had been a halt to the lesson earlier while he fetched dustpan and brush to sweep up the shards of pottery and china; neither of them noticed the table in their path and tripped over it, sweeping the ornaments from their shelves as they tried to right themselves.
“Have you... thought any more about them?” Antoinette asked. She would not usually be hesitant, but this was a delicate area in which to be treading.
“I never cease thinking about them.” Erik stopped moving the furniture and turned to face her. His expression was calm, but serious. “Though I know that she spends all the time with me she can, when I have to let Christine go at the end of the day a little piece of me dies. I want her with me, beside me, Annie; I want to wake up to see her face on the pillow beside mine, to watch her as she sleeps. I grow weary of this solitary existence.”
“Well, then - ”
“Yes, I know what I have to do.” He reached a hand into his waistcoat pocket, withdrawing a little black velvet jeweller’s box which he held out to her. “Give me your honest opinion: do you think she will like it?”
Antoinette lifted the lid; inside nestled a simple gold band set with a single diamond flanked by two small rubies. It was delicate and tasteful, and far more fitted to a girl like Christine than the ostentatious ring she had been given by the vicomte, a ring which Christine revealed later had belonged to Raoul’s grandmother. “I think,” she said, “that it is perfect. Did you design it yourself?”
Erik nodded, taking back the box which vanished into his pocket once more. “A talented craftsman of my acquaintance turned the design into reality.”
“When will you ask her?”
“I have been waiting for so long, trying to summon the courage,” he said, sinking into his chair and staring into the empty fireplace. “Even now, the very idea of making such a momentous gesture, one that will change our lives forever, petrifies me. What will I do if she refuses?”
“Erik, she will not refuse,” Madame told him, coming to perch on the arm. “Why should she?”
“You do not think that maybe, just maybe, she might take a long hard look at me and realise exactly what she would be taking on?” This time his bark of laughter was harsh. “I would not blame her if she turned and ran.”
“She has proved herself before, on more than one occasion. Give her some credit; she deserves that at least.” She rested a hand on his shoulder. “Is it to be tonight?”
He nodded. “At midnight, when everyone else is unmasking. We have no need of such a thing; Christine unmasked me a long time ago.”
“In that case, my dear,” Antoinette said, bending down to kiss him on his undamaged cheek, “I wish you luck from the bottom of my heart.”
